


For Your Birthday or Something

by howler32557038



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Bottom Steve Rogers, M/M, Mpreg, Post Mpreg, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Project Vesna, Rimming, Spoilers, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:16:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9690887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: PLEASE NOTE: THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE END OF PROJECT VESNA.Bucky frowns with what might be genuine surprise. “Wait a minute, I thought I was the pitcher, here.”“No, that was definitely me,” Steve assures him. “And you loved it.”“No, it was me. I remember.”“Maybeonce,Buck. I don't know, for your birthday or something."Steve has proven time and time again that he'd do anything for Bucky. Which is not to say that there aren'tsomethings he'll only do under protest.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drawgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawgirl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Project Vesna](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438207) by [howler32557038](https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038). 



> Helllloooooo! I still exist! And I missed you guys! Okay, okay, let me explain: I toured with Rocky Horror, then I got cast in Titus Andronicus, and then I wrote a ginormous sequel to "I Know Why (and So Do You)" for the Not Without You Stucky Anthology, which received AMAZING support from the fandom (over $80,000 out of an $8,700 goal!).
> 
> In all that madness, a very dear friend's birthday gift fell by the wayside. Better late than never, I guess. Drawgirl (@dee-evan), who did all the illustrations for Project Vesna, has provided so much support through the writing process and through everything else this past year has thrown my way. I don't know where I'd be or what I'd do without her, and I wish her a (very) belated Happy Birthday.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE END OF PROJECT VESNA.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE END OF PROJECT VESNA.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE END OF PROJECT VESNA.

Steve hasn’t needed to set an alarm in almost a year. Every morning, he’s awake right around five, usually because something is on his face. Sometimes, it’s a metal arm. Other days, it’s Abe who, at fifteen months old, can now clamber out of his crib when he decides he’d rather be in the bed with his parents. He likes to sleep stretched sideways across Steve’s throat, with a hand on Steve’s face. He and Bucky grumble about it every morning, and yet they keep their mattress and box springs on the floor, so it’s not too much of a climb for the kids. Bucky usually gets the shorter end of the stick with Beth, who enjoys sitting on his pillow and sticking her fingers in his mouth and nose.

But today, it’s Good Boy. Half of Steve’s hair is wet, so the dog must have been licking him for a few minutes already before he came around. On mornings like these, Steve likes to think back on the years he’d spent so idly - fighting Nazis, fighting aliens, fighting sentient robots. He’d had it so easy. He had gotten _so_ much sleep.

“Need to go out?” Steve whispers groggily, already dragging himself out of bed. Good Boy turns in excited circles, claws tapping softly on the wooden floor. “Go on,” Steve orders, waving the dog out of the room. One bark, and the kids will be up, and then the rest of his morning will be consumed. And however tired he feels right now, he’s got plans for today, and knowing his luck, no more than an hour to accomplish them.

He wanders out into the living room, throws his coat on over his pajamas, and slips into his shoes. Good Boy is already at the front door, headbutting it like he thinks, _Today will be different, today it will open for me._ Steve passes the calendar on the wall and smiles at the red circle around the date.

Outside, sunrise is still at least twenty minutes away and there’s a cold fog rolling off the lake, although the birds are already starting to sing in the surrounding trees. He’s glad Natasha had let them stay in the cabin, even after he and Tony had patched things up. With Sam continuing his “legacy” - whatever _that_ was, he thought with a laugh - and access to his money and Bucky’s restored thanks to Stark’s lawyers, he could enjoy a little break. He figures he’s earned a few years of living his life and raising his kids. And the Chittenden Reservoir is far enough from the city that he doesn’t even have to deal with neighbors - which is great, he decides, looking down at his untied shoes and sweatpants. These days, he doesn’t always have the energy to make himself presentable.

Good Boy comes running back out of the fog when he’s done, looking pleased with himself, as always. That dog has made it his mission to teach Steve to take pride in the little accomplishments. He doesn’t have to save New York every day to be useful. Sometimes the laundry is all he can manage. And that’s alright, because Good Boy doesn’t find the biggest stick in the woods every day, either. Sometimes all he does is mark a tree. And that’s something.

Steve’s eyes are still bleary with sleep, so it’s fortunate that Good Boy notices the large box on the porch. He paces around it, smelling every inch, pawing at the sides - he’s always suspicious of deliveries. Steve’s not worried, though. The writing on the top, which reads, _To: Barnes and Co. (and the Doggy)_ is unmistakably Tony’s hand - tight, evenly spaced, and bold. The work of an engineer, and eerily similar to his father’s. Gifts from Tony have always been interesting - Steve couldn’t deny that he was glad when they started talking again. He’d never been so happy to receive a giant box of illegal fireworks as he had last July, and Beth and Abe had loved them, too, albeit from a safe distance. He hefts the box in his arms, takes it inside, and clears some dirty dishes from the coffee table to make room for it. He’ll wash them later. Maybe.

Bucky is already shuffling around the kitchen when Steve comes in to drop off the dishes, ignoring the coffee maker in favor of brewing on the stove. Steve doesn’t mind it a bit - it makes the house warm through the winter months. He shucks his coat hurriedly and scrubs a hand through his still-damp hair, realizing that he must look like a mess, and wraps his arms around that broad set of shoulders, Bucky’s bed-warm back to Steve’s chest, and settles his head against him.

“Hey, old man,” Steve smiles in greeting.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs. “I know.” He doesn’t sound particularly excited, even though Steve can hear that he’s smiling back. “You know, I’m not even sure how old I am. It’s too early for complicated math.”

“Can’t be that hard to figure out.”

“Do I subtract cryo time?”

“Well, you didn’t age, so...I guess.”

“I think I went under, like, twenty times. I don’t know the years, though.”

Steve thinks for a moment before coming to a decision. “Let’s just call it twenty-nine.”

“Forever?”

“Yeah, why not?” Steve agrees. “Well both just be twenty-nine from here on out.”

“Natasha’s had about five twenty-ninths.”

“And she looks great,” Steve remarks, as if that seals it.

“Yeah, but we can’t all be twenty-nine.”

“Move over. I’ll make breakfast. Go lay on the couch or something. Go open what Tony sent you!” he adds eagerly. Presents and packages really tend to excite him, while Bucky, like Good Boy, always seems just a little skittish about them.

They go about things in what Steve likes to think of as The New Way: covertly. Bucky doesn’t rip the tape off the box - he cuts it away carefully with a sharp pocket knife. Steve doesn’t shake the cast iron skillet full of eggs and sausages on the burner - he turns everything gingerly with a rubber spatula, cringing and shushing the food if it sizzles too loudly. If they need to say something to one another from across the house, they’ll mouth the words and make exaggerated signs until the other understands. This will be protocol until 0800 or until Beth and Abe get up on their own, whichever comes first, and also after 2000 hours and during naptime. Despite the inconveniences of running silent, they enjoy the absence of noise to the fullest.

Bucky still hasn’t finished opening his birthday present by the time Steve brings their plates to the living room. Looks like he removed all the packing tape, then went to pick it up off the floor, and then just _kept_ picking stuff up off the floor. Bucky finishes packing away the board books into their plastic crate and stowing the wooden puzzles back on their rack. At some point in the course of tidying up, he’s pulled his hair back with an elastic he found somewhere. Steve wonders if he’s even noticed that it’s one of Beth’s. He collapses onto the sofa beside Steve without a word and takes his plate, eating quickly and mechanically, looking like he’s got a hundred other things on his mind.

“Slow down and try to enjoy it, Buck,” Steve chuckles.

“I am,” Bucky replies. “It’s good.”

“This is the first birthday you’ve really gotten to celebrate since ‘44. No more cleaning. Let me take care of it.”

Bucky gives it his best shot - at least, he tries actually looking at his food. Once he takes the time to taste it, he seems to sincerely appreciate it. His plate is clear before Steve’s. “Oh, my God. Thank you,” he sighs. Steve thinks the last time Bucky sounded like that must have been his first meal after getting out of the Kreischberg workcamp.

With their empty plates set aside, they begin unpacking Tony’s gifts together. The single large box is full of reused bags and shoe-boxes from stores neither of them could afford to set foot in - thankfully, these contain items which they can actually use. Tony has been in the habit of sending care packages lately, so they’re not surprised to find a variety of cleaning supplies and toiletries on top, in a bag labelled, “For Biohazardous Waste Disposal.” Beneath that, neatly folded articles of children’s clothing, some of which won’t fit for a few months at least. The majority of it is screen printed with images of Iron Man. They find a few boxes of cake mix in various flavors, with a note that says, “Just add work,” a shoebox with treats and toys for Good Boy (“None of this squeaks!”), and, disconcertingly, a package of condoms bearing the words, “I did not poke holes in these.”

Bucky loves it all - none of it makes noise, nothing takes up too much space or contains small parts or hurts if stepped on, and it addresses their daily needs. Tony seems to understand and respect Bucky’s utilitarian preferences. Steve puts it all away, with the exception of the kids’ clothes, and lets Good Boy test out one of the treats. The dog seems to think it’s _his_ birthday, and carries his toys, one by one, over to his blanket in the corner where he settles happily, looking like a king on his throne.

To Steve’s shock (and maybe a little bit of delight) Bucky reaches straight for his Starkpad and calls Tony. It had taken a while, but the two halves of his life are now well on their way to reconciling. Steve leans in to watch the screen and get within view of the camera.

“Well, if it ain’t the Brooklyn Hillbillies.” Tony’s in his workshop - retouching one of the suits he “got rid of.” He lays down his paint sprayer and lowers his mask, then throws himself down onto his shop stool and lets it roll right up to his workstation. “Wow - and you know I say this because I love you guys - you look like the after pictures from a D.A.R.E. program. You sure you don’t want to come back to the Facility? I’ll buy outlet covers.”

“We’re happy out here, but thank you,” Steve smiles.

“Thanks for all the stuff,” Bucky adds. “We love it all.”

“Well, I blew your arm off, so. How’s the dog?”

“He liked his treats.”

“Let’s get a look at him.”

Bucky turns the Starkpad around so that the camera faces Good Boy in his nest of toys.

“There’s my sweet puppy. Yeah, you like your toys? Are you a good dog? Who’s a good dog?”

Good Boy pants with excitement and wallows on his blanket in response.

“Anyway,” says Tony. “Happy birthday, Barnes. Let’s do lunch sometime, guys. Bring Thing A and Thing B along and let their rich, eccentric uncle spoil them.”

“Sounds great - and thanks again,” Bucky laughs, and they end the call. He seems to spend a moment deep in thought after that - he’s silent just long enough that Steve starts to worry. He wouldn’t be surprised to find that Bucky still didn’t entirely trust Tony. Hell, he doesn’t quite trust him yet, either. But before Steve can ask what’s wrong, Bucky looks up at him, eyes narrow and calculating. “Do you want to have sex?”

And somewhere in the distance, a choir of angels is singing. Steve feels his face light up as he looks back to the clock above the stove. “We have forty-five minutes.”

“If they don’t wake up.”

“We’ll be quiet.”

“You’re never quiet, Steve.”

“Come on, we’ve got to hurry,” Steve whispers, trying to prove that he can be quiet when he needs to. He pulls Bucky up off the couch and practically drags him down the hall toward their bedroom.

His heart feels as if it’s climbed into his throat as he turns the lock on their door. On the edge of the bed, Bucky is already yanking off his shoes and letting his hair down. Steve takes a moment to catch his breath, leaning against the door, and just _watches_ Bucky - he’s not putting on any pretenses, not making any effort at all to seem alluring or beautiful, and yet he’s all of that and more. Anyone else might see a man who’s put on a little weight recently slouched on a mattress, shucking his clothes in a rush, with tired eyes and a day’s worth of stubble on his chin, but Steve sees the way Bucky’s brown waves are tucked delicately behind his ear, wisps escaping to brush against his cheekbone, and the way the corded muscles in his forearm jump when he unties his shoes, and the ghost of a smile on his lips that betrays anticipation, eagerness, lust.

Steve steps forward before Bucky can get further than his shoes and socks and pulls his shirt over his head, throwing his own on the floor next to it a moment later. A long, overheated build-up would unquestionably be more satisfying to them both, but right now they’re too thankful for their stolen time to miss it. Steve feels like the air’s been snatched from his lungs when their eyes meet, and without another second of hesitation, he pushes Bucky back onto the mattress and pins him there with an insistent, hard kiss.

Bucky’s hands fly to Steve’s hair and tug, not guiding him one way or another, but pulling just to pull, just to show Steve how much he wants and how fast he wants it. Steve pushes back, happy to quicken the pace. He kisses Bucky’s jaw, skims his teeth along the sharp line of bone there, bites at the juncture of Bucky’s shoulder and neck, sucks bruises into the delicate skin over his collarbone, hands gripping and sliding along the length of Bucky’s thighs all the while as Bucky arches up into him, pressing their hips closer and begging for friction.

And that’s not right - Bucky shouldn’t have to beg for a thing today. They haven’t got the time to tease and play right now, so Steve traces his fingers up the inside of Bucky’s leg, rubbing along the tensed muscle until his thumb brushes the head of his cock, trapped against the waistband of sweats. He cups him roughly, rolling his fingers against the apex of Bucky’s thighs until both of Bucky’s fists are twisted into the bedsheets and he rasps out mindlessly, “God, _fuck,_ Steve--”

“Oh, but I’m the noisy one,” Steve smiles coyly.

“I know - I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers, words tumbling out as he grinds his cock into Steve’s open palm. “But, fuck, it’s been a month and I’m - _God,_ I’m gonna fucking lose it.”

Steve wraps his hand around him, letting the fabric of Bucky’s pants drag against his cock, and gives his wrist a gentle twist that makes Bucky’s face and neck flush deep red with the effort of staying silent. “You go right ahead and lose it if you want to,” he laughs. “It’s your birthday. Do what you want.”

“What,” Bucky sighs, barely able to form words as Steve gives him a few slow, firm strokes. “Like, anything?”

And that - not necessarily the words themselves, but the _way_ Bucky says them - makes Steve pause. He tries to laugh off his sudden apprehension. “Well, I - _almost_ anything? I’m not into golden showers. And anything involving the dog’s a hard ‘no.’”

“Steve - what - Christ,” Bucky scoffs, trying not to laugh too loudly. “No.”

“Well, now you don’t have to feel embarrassed about asking,” Steve rationalizes, planting a few apologetic kisses over Bucky’s ribs.

“Let me fuck you,” he smiles hopefully.

Steve leans his forehead on Bucky’s stomach and stifles his giggle against his skin. “Golly, I was way off.”

Bucky lets just a touch of desperation and impatience creep into his voice. “Is it okay?”

“Buck - you don’t have to ask for that.”

“Thought you kind of prefered the other way.”

“Well, when I was a hundred pounds, I might have,” Steve admits. “It was a little uncomfortable back then. And I was, ah--”

“Insecure?” Bucky provides, sitting up.

“I wasn’t insecure.” _Yeah, I was_.

“Sure.” Bucky pushes him back until Steve is standing between his legs, right at the edge of the bed. He leans in close, letting Steve feel his breath when he speaks, warm against his belly. “You’re gonna let me do whatever I want?”

Steve winds his fingers into Bucky’s hair, feeling every nerve ending prickle when Bucky’s lips drift over the hypersensitive skin just above his hip as Bucky’s thumbs - blood-warm flesh on the right and cool metal on the left - tease at the waistband of his pants. “God - yeah.”

And _oh,_ Bucky doesn’t waste another second. He slips Steve’s pants and briefs down over his legs and with his right hand, grips Steve by the back of his thigh to draw him in close while his left hand - dangerous, indelicate, _strong -_ envelops his balls and the base of his cock, squeezing just tightly enough that Steve feels his own pulse hammering against the unyielding metal.

The pressure of Bucky’s fingers is the only thing keeping him from coming the moment Bucky leans down and slips the head of Steve’s cock past his lips, tongue flitting playfully over the underside, teeth just barely scraping at a swollen vein. Steve almost forgets that Bucky’s just warming him up - that this isn’t their final destination - and  lets himself get lost in the overwhelming sensation of being toyed with by that quick tongue. A second longer, and not even Bucky’s mechanical grip could keep him from coming, but Bucky pulls back the moment he feels Steve hit the edge.

“Oh, no--” Steve gasps, almost tearful. He’s not thinking about their plans anymore - his brain is nothing but an overheated circuit board. “Please, baby, fuck, don’t stop.”

Bucky doesn’t seem to have any intention of stopping, though - just changing directions. He pulls Steve down onto the bed beside him, keeping a guiding hand on his hip to hold him in place once he’s on his hands and knees. God, why didn’t they do this more often? Why did they _ever_ do this the other way? Steve can hardly believe he was ever stupid enough to turn this down. Maybe, when he was eighteen, he wasn’t willing to bite a pillow with his ass in the air, ready to beg if it meant getting fucked senseless, but _now_ , he knows better.

And better and _better._ Steve doesn’t see Bucky’s next play coming before it’s too late - his face is buried in the bedsheets, desperate to press his burning cheeks into something cool - so the shock of feeling Bucky’s tongue between his legs sets off fireworks behind his eyelids and makes his ears ring. Bucky squeezes his hip sharply - he must have made a noise. He can’t remember. Not with Bucky’s tongue sliding against him, _into him,_ drawing vicious lines and ticklish circles until Steve feels the springs on the edge of the mattress groan under his shaking, grasping fists.

Bucky doesn’t ask him to roll onto his back - or tell him. Once he’s done edging him all over again, Bucky _throws_ him down like he weighs nothing, leaving him sprawled across the covers, feet still tangled in his sweatpants, cock straining against his belly, heavy and flushed, chest heaving and pupils blown.

And for as beautiful as Bucky looks when Steve opens him up and fucks him, this is almost _too_ good - being _beneath_ him, everything exposed, being watched and consumed and trapped by that hunting gaze. And yet, he’s reminded that for everything that makes him a predator, Bucky is still gentle. Seventy years of military conditioning couldn’t take away his sweetness. He bends down to kiss Steve’s bent knee, leaning back to reach for the nightstand drawer, and Steve remembers that there’s lube and rubbers in there - hell, it’s been months since they’d had the time or energy to need them.

Steve doesn’t mind that the lube is freezing cold - in fact, he’s thankful for anything that might slow him down a little, at this point. Bucky covers his fingers in it, spreading it with his thumb, and then lays his metal hand on Steve’s belly, steadying and soothing him with a tender, easy caress that the Weapon shouldn’t really be capable of. He holds his breath as Bucky presses into him and reaches down to grip the metal wrist. Bucky interlaces their fingers tenderly, working deeper and deeper into him with his right hand until Steve is clutching at him, panting, precariously balanced between immense pleasure and the burning stretch of being fucked open. It’s just on the cusp of being too painful to enjoy, but Steve tells himself to breathe and hold on just a little longer, to enjoy the tingling, electric heat of being stretched on Bucky’s fingers, because once Bucky’s cock is in him, nothing’s going to hurt - nothing will matter. The sheer euphoria of being filled up by him will outweigh _everything_ else.

“Are you okay? Need me slow down?” Bucky whispers. To Steve’s confusion, it doesn’t sound like an off-handed question - Bucky actually sounds a little worried. He forces his eyes open and discovers that he _looks_ worried, too.

“No,” Steve huffs. “No, it’s good - it was just a lot all at once. I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

Does he really want him beg for it? Fine. “Fuck me. Come on.”

“Steve, I only just got two fingers into you.”

Two. _Two?_ Really? Steve was under the impression that Bucky was buried in him right up the wrist. Two fingers, and he’s pouring sweat like Bucky’s digging a bullet out of him. He lets his head fall back against the pillow, feeling less than proud of himself. “You make this look so easy.”

“Well, I’ve--”

“Don’t you dare compare it to having kids. I know you’re tougher than me, you don’t have to rub it in. I don’t think I can do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You will!”

“Don’t you want a blowjob, or something?”

“Just _relax,_ Steve. You’re tighter than the cockpit of a Tomahawk. Loosen up a little and let me make this good.”

Steve had been under the impression that he was perfectly relaxed - but once the haze of nervousness and arousal clears a little, he realizes that he was tensing muscles he didn’t even know he had. Bucky slides his hand down Steve’s belly to give him a few slow, easy strokes, and that helps tremendously.

Steve lays back, shuts his eyes, puts his trust in Bucky, and does the thing he’d been afraid to do - he relinquishes control. He stops worrying about what he thinks he should be doing and allows himself to react and feel, inhaling when Bucky pulls back, exhaling when he presses in, a fraction of an inch deeper every time. Even with more lube, three fingers stings, but he repeats the process until that sharp edge of pain dulls to a pleasant ache in his core. Bucky’s hand, smooth and hard and so strangely delicate, keeps up a languid rhythm on his cock the whole time.

Finally, he gets over some kind of invisible wall and starts to _enjoy_ being fucked - not just endure it - and before he realizes it he’s pushing back against Bucky, riding his fingers to pull him in deeper, uttering a breathless chant of, “Buck, yes, God, more, please, _please,”_ in a low, desperate voice that hardly sounds like his own.

He _almost_ lets himself come, and Bucky _almost_ doesn’t stop. Luckily, Bucky breaks down before he does and lets go of Steve’s cock in favor of his own. He opens his eyes, riveted by the sight of Bucky, too hard to wait any longer, squeezing and twisting himself through his pants, precum leaving damp, dark patches on the blue sweats and making the fabric cling revealingly. By the time Bucky pulls out, leaving Steve momentarily empty, he’s too eager to miss the stimulation.

Steve feels like his whole body’s caught fire as he watches Bucky slide the waistband of his pants down. His cock is hard as hell and flushed from root to tip - _and maybe a little thicker than Steve remembered -_ and Steve has to hold his breath to keep from groaning when Bucky slicks himself up. He gasps for air as Bucky takes him by the leg and drags him closer, bracing Steve’s knee over his shoulder and practically _cries_ when he brushes the head of his cock over his perineum, pressing down to tease against Steve’s ass, and the moment he starts to push into him Steve all but whites out. Biting his knuckles isn’t doing much to keep him quiet. It’s too good, it’s too _much_ and it’s only going to get better--

“Hey, shh,” Bucky soothes him, pulling back a little. “Not yet.”

“I can’t-” Steve chokes out. His cock is so full that it’s aching. “Please, _fuck.”_ It doesn’t matter if he comes - even if he does, he feels like he could do it ten more times before slowing down. “I _can’t--”_

“Don’t you dare,” Bucky warns him, something dark and demanding and yet _reverent_ in his voice, softened by an easy playfulness in his eyes. “Not ‘til I let you.”

And that _does_ it. It’s not in Steve’s nature to follow an order, and his body fights him, back arching to slide further onto Bucky’s cock, but he forces himself to nod, to obey the command, in spite every nerve in his body screaming for release.

Bucky pulls Steve’s hips up and thrusts forward and _fuck_ , it _hurts_ and it’s just about more than Steve can handle, but it’s _exactly_ what he’d needed. They played around a little too long and they’re both at the utmost end of their patience. There’s no sense in taking it slow for the sake of romance or comfort or tenderness at this point. The pace Bucky sets is brutal and hungry from the first sharp thrust, relentless and unapologetically aggressive.

For all Steve can guess, he keeps it up for what could be a minute or an hour before he slows down long enough to reach for Steve’s cock again, this time with his flesh and blood hand. Bucky draws him further into his lap, the Weapon’s servo motors humming as he lifts him off the bed and fucks into him, matching his rough strokes to the tight, exacting rhythm of every thrust. He doesn’t betray anything with his voice, somehow managing to stay silent aside from the steady beat of his ragged breaths, but even without that Steve still knows the moment that Bucky’s orgasm hits. They’re bodies are so close - Bucky is inside him and all around him, and he feels the way his fingers clench, the tension that builds low in his belly, the way his cock swells and lengthens as he approaches climax.

There’s no such slow crescendo for Steve. Bucky’s orgasm moves through him like a rolling wildfire, but the instant Steve feels him coming, feels himself inundated with pulsing, liquid heat, his own climax blasts through him like the explosion of a tripped mine, abdomen seizing, shoulders lifting off the mattress, semen streaking over his belly and chest and Bucky’s deft fingers. And it doesn’t _stop_ : his ears ring and his vision fills with dark spots and a barely-contained groan scrapes at his throat.

“Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

Bucky’s voice fades in. Judging by the lingering intensity of his afterglow, Steve must not have blacked out for more than a few seconds - long enough for Bucky to slip out of him and collapse, sweat-soaked and boneless, beside him on the covers.

“Whose birthday’s this supposed to be?” Steve slurs, head still buzzing and throbbing from release.

Bucky chuckles, voice raw. “That made up for all the ones I missed.”

“Hey,” Steve grins, reaching over to pat Bucky’s arm. “I did it!”

Steve lets himself be scooped off the bed and pulled into Bucky’s arms, curling up to tuck his head under Bucky’s chin, just like he used to. “Yeah,” Bucky laughs. “You did.”

 

By the time they haul themselves up, it’s ten after eight, and Steve’s faith in a merciful God has been restored because one peek into Abe and Beth’s room reveals that they’re _still_ sleeping, which gives Steve and Bucky time to each take a five minute turn in the shower. He can hardly believe their luck - they don’t usually have the privilege of enjoying breakfast and a few easy chores (God forbid, _sex_ ) before their day starts in earnest. Bucky showers second, so Steve has the fun of waking the kids up all to himself.

He opens up the curtains to let the misty sunlight in and smiles down at the toddler bed on the floor. Beth had started using it a few weeks ago, but Abe hadn’t been ready. Today, Abe has climbed out of the crib, like most mornings, but instead of coming to his parents, he’d gone to his sister and the new bed. Steve knows he’d probably just woken up feeling lonely, but it still feels like a milestone, a graduation of sorts, if for no other reason than the name of the thing - _toddler_ bed. Not newborn or infant or baby - _toddler._

He sits down on the floor beside them and spends a while just staring - taking in the sight of them before they’re not toddlers anymore, either, but children, soon to be teenagers, nearly adults. He sits there much longer than he means to, apparently - long enough for Bucky to finish his shower and join him on the floor. The kids go right on sleeping.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he whispers.

Bucky smiles. “Not really. I was hoping we could get some time alone this morning, so I read to them until about eleven. Is that cheating? Am I a bad parent?” he winces, laughing.

Steve snorts. “No, you’re an amazing parent, Buck. That was smart. But I was talking about...I don’t know, about everything.”

“Everything’s amazing, huh?” Bucky smirks. “You must have really enjoyed my - uh, birthday party.”

“No - I mean, well yeah, but,” he sighs, trying to put words to a feeling he can hardly grasp, “I was thinking about the winter before last, when…”

“When they picked us up,” Bucky provides, when Steve stumbles.

Steve clears his throat, trying to recapture his smile. “I remember, we were running. In the woods. I don’t know. It’s still fuzzy.”

“We broke out of the vans. They were taking us to an airfield.”

“Didn’t you throw me off a bridge? Into a creek? In January?”

“No, of course not. That would be so dangerous,” says Bucky, straight-faced.

Steve spends a split-second buying the act before he gives Bucky a narrow-eyed sidelong glance. “Yes, you did. Anyway, I think we talked about doing that,” he chuckles, blushing. “I don’t know, we were joking around, or something.”

“I told you I always pitched and you always caught. You told me we only ever did it like that on my birthday,” Bucky explains, rolling his eyes.

Steve smells something in the air that’s not quite right. Feels colder than he should. Hears something that’s not there. “And they picked us up right after that. In a helicopter.”

“Yeah.”

“You...you had a seizure,” Steve remembers, then adds softly, “and I handed you over to them.” He feels the blood leave his face at the realization, followed by a sharp pang of guilt in his chest - he’d only been trying to remember the conversation. The rest of that winter, he’d been happy to forget. But his memory of the only good moment they’d had that day had crumbled into all the mistakes that had come after. He wishes the memory had stayed lost. “I handed you over to Hydra,” he repeats, barely aware that he says it aloud. He knows Bucky has already forgiven him - he must have - but he hasn’t had the chance to forgive himself.

The conversation can’t continue, though. They can’t have it in front of the kids, no matter how little of it they’d understand, and Beth is rolling onto her back and stretching her legs, kicking Abe awake in the process. Soon, they’re both blinking and rubbing their sleep-filled eyes, her blonde locks and his dark brown waves like tangled nests on their little heads, pajamas rumpled, soft blankets kicked off.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers, unable to say more, and not knowing what he would say if he _could_ say more.

For a moment, Bucky doesn’t respond, and Steve wishes he’d never brought it up. And then he laughs - warm, rich, and unmistakably happy. “Steve,” he sighs. “If we had it to do over, I’d get back on that chopper in a heartbeat. It was the best thing you ever did for me.”

And Steve follows Bucky’s eyes down to Abe and Beth, restless and yawning, probably only moments away from reaching out to be picked up, and he has to laugh, too, because if he doesn’t laugh, he’ll cry in front of his kids.

Beside him, Bucky laughs harder, and now, it’s not just happy - there’s humor in it, too. “Well,” he drawls, already amused at his own joke. “Maybe the _second_ best thing you ever did for me.”

“You liked it that much, huh?” Steve grins.

“Oh, yeah. We’re going to have to do that more often.”

“Whoa, pal,” Steve jokes. “I’m paid up until next year. We had a deal.”

“God, you little punk,” Bucky huffs, scooping Beth and Abe up off the bed. They’re nearly an hour late for breakfast, which means they’ll be an hour late for their nap. “Go wash those dishes.”

Steve heaves a sigh, but the smile on his face stays. “Yeah. Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> Coming up next, I'm finishing "The Simple Life" gosh darn it.


End file.
